


The Good That Won't Come Out

by gloss



Category: Captain America, Invaders (Marvel), The Invaders - Fandom
Genre: Challenge Response, Golden Age, Multi, The Invaders, WWII, crossdressing for justice, sidekickery, the howlers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:12:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky knows to take care of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good That Won't Come Out

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Rilo Kiley [song](http://www.sing365.com/music/Lyric.nsf/The-Good-That-Won't-Come-Out-lyrics-Rilo-Kiley/88B037A78AED019248256CB5002BB3DD) and beta by G. For the [**FuryMadeUsDoIt challenge**](http://community.livejournal.com/furymadeusdoit/?style=mine). This began as commentspam for Kate from an idea of Jube's. Jube provided much more help along the way and this is for her.

**07-23-07**

Dugan delivers the orders after lunch. He makes blustery apologies for Fury's absence and chitchat with Jim and Steve before -- glancing at the boys -- he hands the orders over. They occupy a single black-bordered sheet folded and sealed several times. Oily stamps from OSS and British intelligence decorate both the front and back.

The orders are for Bucky's eyes only; Steve gives them right over. His expression, however, is concerned, if not yet worried.

"Your people's reliance on those who are little more than children is regrettable," Namor says from the corner of the sitting room.

Toro jumps to his feet, only slightly restrained by Jim's hand on his elbow. "We're not *kids*!"

Namor turns the page of his book. "So you say. Frequently."

"Look here, fish-face --" As Toro makes a move toward Namor, flames start to flicker around his head and shoulders. Jim clucks his tongue, but Steve's eyes remain on Bucky, who pulls Toro away.

"C'mon," Bucky says, and Toro, surprised, stumbles as he turns to follow.

"What's up?" Steve asks as they pass.

Bucky sticks his head back into the room. "Nothing special. Flamey and I're going to play dress-up."

*

While Dugan paces in the hallway, Bucky and Toro don their disguises. Toro's is simplicity itself, just a string of tinsel wrapped around his shoulders and down one arm.

Bucky's is more complicated.

Bucky swats Toro's hand away, splashing the eyeliner off the brush, and checks himself in the mirror. "I look like *Namor* with this sludge."

"Nah, you look good!" Toro pinches Bucky's chin and moves his head around for a better look. "Veronica Lake's got nothing on you."

"Well?" Bucky demands, fists planted on his hips as he sways in a little in the heels. "Steve? Steve. What do you think?"

Steve has buried himself in a year-old issue of Life; above the magazine, the tips of his ears and his temples are as red as Bucky's lipstick. "Nice," he whispers without looking.

"I told you!" Toro slips his arm through Bucky's and squeezes his hand.

Under the chiffon, at mid-thigh, Bucky's knife is strapped tightly. Reassuringly. He taps its handle twice before knocking the magazine from Steve's clutch. "Rogers. A word?"

Steve drags his eyes up to Bucky's. "Yes?"

"Nothing," Bucky says after several silent breaths. "See you tomorrow."

*

The Howlers, all save Reb -- back on base, laid up with the 'flu -- drop the boys off in a silent Berlin suburb.

*

The cabaret vomits flames behind them as they run for it.

"We did it!" Toro shouts as soon as they race toward the rendezvous point. Despite the November chill in the night air, he's smiling. Grinning, actually, flushed from the schnapps and the _very_ nice German who held him on his or her lap--in the dark, it was hard to tell--to feed him the sips. "Buck--"

Bucky's shoulders are hunched around his ears as he hurries down the side street, the chiffon gown trailing behind him like it's rushing to catch up. His wig's a little askew, platinum-blonde catching the lamps over on the main avenue. When Toro tugs on his dress's sleeve, Bucky stops, and turns, wobbling on his heels. The cosmetics around his eyes are smudged. It looks like his usual mask, if the mask could melt a little and trace tear-tracks down his cheeks. His lips have no paint whatsoever left on them. Nothing that shines, anyway; they're very red still.

"How'd it *go*?" Toro flicks a small flame from his thumb and holds it up to examine Bucky's face more carefully. They better not get caught; Bucky doesn't look like a pretty mädchen anymore. Still a pretty *Bucky*, but Toro keeps that thought to himself.

"It went," Bucky mutters and wraps his arms around himself. He lost one false bosom, and the other peeks over his forearm. His hands are tucked into his armpits and, try as he might, Toro can't tug them free. "Leave me *be* --"

Toro blows out his thumb and presses against Bucky's side. "What's wrong with your hands?"

"Nothing."

"Let me *see*."

"Thomas --" Bucky says lowly and Toro grins. Bucky sighs. "Toro, just --. C'*mon*."

Toro shrugs. "Fury won't be here for an hour. You worked *fast*, y'know?"

Bucky tips his head back against the wall and sighs. The line of foundation along his jaw makes it look even sharper than usual. On his toes, Toro traces the line with his still-warm thumb, smiling when Bucky turns to look at him. Even if Bucky rolls his eyes, Toro still smiles.

"So we could..." Toro continues, then trails off. In their rings of kohl, Bucky's eyes look really far away. Glittery, too. The dress flaps between them, tickling Toro's knees, wrapping around them. "If you wanted..."

He *saw* Bucky watching him in the club. Not just keeping an eye on him, but watching. Toro danced with Nazis in dresses and those of all genders in formal dinner attire. Bucky whispered to the fat Kommandant, Schickelgruber, who was their target, but he *watched* Toro.

Until he and Schickelgruber and the Nazi's aide disappeared into a back room, that is. After that, Toro didn't see Bucky until he slid up, told him to close his eyes and send a fireball forward on his count.

Sudden against Toro's mouth, Bucky's lips taste like the vanished lipstick, creamy and chemical. He's kissing *really* hard, pushing Toro's knees apart with his own, grasping Toro's shoulders.

His hands on Toro's skin are black with blood. As Toro shivers and wraps his arms around Bucky's neck, squeaking appreciatively into the kiss, his whole body warms up. The blood goes sticky again on Bucky's hands before running in streaks down his arms, over Toro's chest.

Bucky's eyes are downcast, even when Toro says his name and tugs at the wig.

*

Hands shoved deep into his pockets, pipe clamped in his teeth, Steve paces the sitting room. "I don't like this," he says tightly around the stem. "I don't like this *at all*."

Jim sets his book aside. "You might try to sleep."

"Not at all," Steve says and brandishes the pipe at the room. "They're just boys --"

"Bucky's training is second to none," Jim says, as calmly as only an android can. "As for Toro, the lad's brave as they come."

Steve rakes his hand through his hair until it stands on end like scattered hay. "That *dress*..."

"Striking, yes."

"Darn it!" Steve shouts. Shocked by his own fervor, he slumps down into the nearest chair. Knitting his fingers together, he stares at his palms. "I don't like -- the *worry*, Jim."

"That would be an unfortunate consequence of partnership, yes."

"Yes." Steve sighs.

"Of course, there are many more positive consequences than there are negative ones."

Jim smiles toward Steve, but Steve's head is bowed. In the dark, he might be in church, a lone congregant speaking privately with his Maker.

*

The truck barrels toward them, barely slowing down. Dugan crouches over the wheel in a Nazi uniform too big for him. As it passes, Bucky pushes Toro ahead, hoisting him by the waist through the canvas flaps at the back. Gown tearing around his legs, he gives chase, grasping the big hand and thick forearm at the last moment.

Sergeant Fury hauls him inside; Bucky lands on his knees and free hand, stilling the urge to gasp for air.

Toro helps him onto one of the low benches that runs along the side of the truck, patting down his dress and fluffing up his wig.

After lighting his cigar off Toro's finger, Fury slumps back on the bench opposite them. "Everything copacetic?"

Toro nods rapidly; Bucky shrugs. Fury just looks at them, the cigar's light reaching only as far as the tip of his nose. As his eyes tick back and forth, the light's reflection moves in red little pinpoints. Toro remembers that stare from the circus. Audience members who didn't want to be there -- fathers, usually, and joes on dates -- would look through him, just like this.

Bucky, he knows, will handle it.

Frankly, Fury bugs Toro -- so much bluster, yelling at everyone in sight, he's just not very *nice*. Bucky pats his shoulder when Toro curls up on the floor, head pillowed on a spare flak jacket.

*

The wig in his lap, Bucky plucks and twists the candy-floss curls.

"Ya look like hell, Barnes," Fury says finally.

"Could say the same of you --" Bucky tugs up the right strap of his dress. "But a lady's manners forbid it."

Snorting, Fury kicks at Bucky's ankle. "Yer no lady."

Bucky does a graceful roll of his shoulders -- the move's admirable when the kid's all suited up, knife in hand, out in the field, but it's damn unsettling *here*. Now, in that dress. His smile is tight and sharp.

Fury grunts as he digs in his back pocket for a twisted old handkerchief. "Here --"

Bucky catches the toss one-handed. "What's this for?"

"Clean yourself up."

Bucky's smile widens until it curves like the light off his knife. "You don't like my new look?"

"No skin offa my nose."

Bucky squares his shoulders. The shift draws the straps of that dancehall dress taut over sudden muscle; he lifts his chin and glares through slitted lids. "Your orders said Schickelgruber liked his ladies mannish." He sits forward, knees apart and feet planted. "Or was it the other way 'round?"

The cigar flares white and orange. As it dims, Fury rubs his nose and snorts again. "Can't say I remember. Don't care, neither."

"Au contraire," Bucky says, and he crosses the narrow space, stepping over Toro, knees bent to take the jolting rhythm. He stops in front of Fury, bracing himself on one hand, staring down. "Think you do."

"What, care?"

"Like it."

Fury's cigar brightens and dims, like a pulse, again and again. Finally, he tips his head back and opens one eye. "Watch yerself, Barnes."

"Mm." Bucky's free hand runs down his front, down to his waist, over his narrow, square hips. The sound of skin on fabric, the stink of flowery perfume, none of that belongs here. "Something like that."

Nick leans toward the front of the truck; they hit a hole, he also falls, and Bucky catches him with one manicured hand. Shaking that off, Nick bangs on the flimsy divider between the hold and the cab. "Ya still ride horses back in Boston, Dugan? Drive, man, drive!"

When he sits back again, Bucky is next to him. With his legs crossed like a man's, his dress is stretched obscenely. Fury checks the flaming kid, but he's deep in slumberland.

"So," he says, quietly, beneath the rumble and bangs of the truck's passage. "How'd it go? Really?"

Bucky knots dirty fingers in the wig. "Any mission you walk away from," he says, "that's a success."

"Yeah, kid." Fury nods solemnly. You've got to believe that, or else what're you going to do? "Yeah, that's how it goes."

"Me and Toro, we walked." Bucky looks out the back of the truck; shadows play stage-magic tricks over the shit around his eyes. He turns, looking back at Fury, quick as machine-gun fire. "What about you?"

Fury shakes his head and fills his mouth with smoke.

"Sat pretty back at base, that's what." Bucky doesn't need to point his finger at Fury. His words, the blankness of his face under the pain, do all the accusation necessary.

"It ain't like that." Fury sways as the truck leaps over a bump; his back is rigid, he can't seem to find his balance. "Dino looks like crap inna dress and Reb's got the flu..."

"And neither of 'em can use a knife like me."

"Yeah." Fury's admission comes in a sigh. "You said it."

Bucky's palms are streaked, like a zebra's haunch, old blood and clean skin, too clean for what he's thinking. He'd been kissing Toro, hand in the kid's shorts jacking him hard, when he realized the blood was getting all over the kid. He crumpled down to his knees. Toro barely muffled his squeak of grateful surprise when Bucky took him in his mouth, licked like a cat and sucked like a --.

Afterward, Toro couldn't hide, couldn't even dim, his grin. Bucky hadn't ever done that to, for, him. Cinders and sparks twirled in the air around them.

He'd cleaned Toro up. Bucky, though, can't say the same for himself.

He squeezes Fury's knee until the bone and tendons shift. Hair of the dog, that's what he needs, just like Fury himself likes to say.

*

Bucky knots Fury's grimy handkerchief around his neck before retrieving his compact from the beaded clutch. He touches up his face, repainting his lips, powdering his nose -- before squeezing Fury's knee again.

Fury swallows and moves just out of reach. "Barnes, we got a long night ahead of us --"

"My thoughts exactly." Bucky shakes sweaty hair from his eyes -- short hair, held back with pins, looks like a boy from the forehead on up. "What *will* pass the time, Sergeant?"

"Yer little buddy's got the right idea." Fury nods toward Toro, who mumbles and curls around himself.

"Can't sleep," Barnes pipes like a child as he shivers dramatically. "Sure you know how *that* is."

"Hand of cards?" Nick taps the deck that lives in his chest pocket, where other soldiers keep Bibles.

"Hmm..." Bucky stretches out one leg and twists it, running his fingertip up the seam in back. "No, I don't think so."

On the flight over, Dum Dum had allowed as to how Bucky had real nice gams. For a man. Boy. Fury cracked wise about _how would *he* know? Mrs. Dugan was probably built like a Panzer_. Dugan, blushing dark, shut up.

Fury lets the cigar dangle from the corner of his lips. "And Schickelgruber?"

Bucky arches one perfectly-drawn eyebrow; it looks like he was copying the half-fish prick's expression there. "He's out of the game."

Fury nods. "And his codes?"

When Bucky does not reply, Fury makes a show of waiting impatiently. He nudges Bucky's side, drums his fingers on the seat, grunts and shifts.

"You gonna give me what I asked for, Private?"

Bucky hums under his breath. "Good question."

Eventually, after glancing at Toro's sleeping form, Bucky reaches into his bra and extracts a packet of folded papers. As Fury reaches for it, Bucky jerks it away. He's smiling again, lips glossy and black, as he leans over Fury to tuck the papers into the sergeant's pants pocket.

Two of Bucky's false fingernails have snapped off, but the others are intact. Dried blood darkens his cuticles.

"Jesus *wept*, Barnes." Fury tips his head back, the smoke floating over his face. He grunts when Bucky's fingers skate over his groin. The touch is light, thoughtlessly affectionate.

"Had to take out another German," Bucky adds when he's got three of Fury's fly-buttons open.

"Shots?" Fury spreads his thighs and breathes through his mouth.

Bucky's nails scrape across Fury's testicles before he wraps his hand around the shaft. "Knife. No noise."

"Good man." His thighs tense as he stubs out the cigar. Barnes is an ace with that knife; those Nazis probably never knew what sliced 'em before they'd bled empty. "Bodies?"

"Toro took care of it." The nape of Bucky's neck flares white as a candle, thin as a birch branch, as he goes down.

Fury isn't much for poetry, but his hand hesitates over Bucky's neck, then shies away, before grasping his shoulder.

"Nice work." Fury speaks through gritted teeth.

As Bucky nods, lipstick smears onto Fury's underwear. Fury opens his mouth to say something about taking a little care, just as Barnes takes him down in two swallows, easy and wet and tight as you please. *Now*, his mouth's open for air. His hips buck hard before he controls himself and knots his fingers in the kid's short, slick hair.

It'll all be over too soon, it always is, so Fury closes his eyes and enjoys. After a bit, Barnes tugs Fury's right hand into his lap and pulls off his prick to lick the palm.

Fury's left with an aching cock and a wet hand as Barnes stands up.

"Cheat at cards *and* a pricktease?" Fury squints at the kid. "Can't say I'm surprised. Disappointed, sure --"

"Never cheat." Barnes has hold of his wrist again and he executes some kind of Oriental judo-flip move, shoving Nick's hand under the skirt and straddling his lap, facing away. "Just need a --" Up over the garters, toward the back, where it's sweaty and sticky, Barnes moves Nick's hand. He grunts when they hit the crack of his ass. "A hand."

"Buck," Nick says, low and mean. His prick's pushed up against his belly, crooked to the side, and he's not a nice man at the best of times. Blue balls just make him cranky. "The *fuck* do you think you're doing?"

Barnes shifts, side to side, rising a little only to rub himself like a humping dog on Nick's fingers. "Preparation."

Somehow, Nick's got his arm around Bucky's waist. He squeezes hard enough to drive out the air from most men's lungs, but Bucky just laughs, deep in his throat.

"Give me this," Bucky says, just as low. "And we'll call it --" He shifts again, legs wrapping around the back of Nick's, to fuck himself quickly on Nick's fingers. When he speaks again, his voice is higher. "-- even."

"I don't do this." Nick inhales and thrusts forward, dragging his cock over tangled chiffon. "Not like this."

For a blessed moment, Bucky goes still. Outside, but inside, he's still moving, gripping and releasing. The heat of it is enough to bring tears to Nick's eyes, shove his hips forward again, slick his cock up that much more.

"Just like this," Bucky says. He lifts up, jerks away from Nick's fingers, and sinks back down. Nick's got his prick in his fist, holding it steady, and Bucky's aim is, as ever, unerring. When he hits bottom, the sigh he gives is wispy and quiet, breath that vanishes in the night, but then he moves again. Up and forward, back and down, and Nick grunts with the rhythm, lifting his ass from the bench, driving forward.

"Like this?" he asks and yanks Bucky's head back until they're cheek to cheek, stubble rasping paint.

Bucky's eyes are screwed shut, his body shuddering and tense. "Harder."

Nick can do harder. He gives him harder, and Bucky answers with vicious thrashes that make Nick pant and see white. Harder and deeper, and Barnes takes more, fingernails in Nick's forearm scoring black through the hair.

"Harder."

Nick bites at Bucky's neck, half-standing, holding the writhing boy. Every push in burns a little more, a little brighter, until he can't tell the difference between successive pushes, until he's sunk balls-deep and Bucky's biting the palm he's got over his mouth to keep him quiet, until he thrusts hard enough to shake the truck and make Dugan curse.

Then he's slumping back, dragging Bucky with him, yelling at Dugan to keep his eyes on the damn road.

"Turn around," Nick says when he can think again.

"Why, Sergeant Fury, I never..."

He yanks the dress up and pushes Bucky off his lap. Swaying with the truck's motion, Bucky turns like a dancer, grabs a handhold over Nick's head, and falls. Forward, over, *onto* him.

Nick reaches for the kid's prick and finds instead a mess of spunk on silk.

As he lifts himself free, Bucky grins sharply. "Know to take care of myself."

The truck jolts on through the night.

*

In the hold of the captured Italian gunner they're using to cross the Channel, Barnes finally sleeps, Toro slumped over his lap, Gabe's shirt blanketing them both.

"Gimme that." Fury tugs at Gabe's immaculate handkerchief until Gabe releases it.

He hocks into it, then wipes Bucky's face as clean as he can. The least he can do is return him to Winghead looking a little less whorish.

"Keep it, sarge." Gabe pulls a face that'd get him a week on KP duty with Fury's old sergeant.

The Howlers drop the boys off at Invaders' HQ late that morning. Toro runs right off to find Jim while Bucky heads for the bath; Fury fails to avoid Rogers, though he tries his damnedest. He manages to keep Dugan and Dino between him and the matinee idol, at least.

Bucky is scrubbed pink and clean as a kitten when he joins Steve for a late breakfast.

"Welcome back, Mr. Barnes." Steve passes the pot of ersatz jam.

"Good to be back, Mr. Rogers."

Their fingers meet, brush, then linger around the jam. Steve is smiling, the expression quiet and bright simultaneously, and Bucky is not.

Out on the front walk, Fury can't hear them. He can see them, framed by the open blackout curtains, all smiles and fraternity.

He tosses his cigar into a bare rosebush and hurries on.


End file.
